Tag Archives: stories

“Do not laugh too loud or too much at any Public Spectacle.” G. Washington

Forget the firing range. It’s the woods for us.
Dusty roads shrunk down from arteries to
capillaries; fallen trees adorned with empties
that pop, crumple, and fall when we shoot right through
them, back in the days when tin cans were dense
and solid, heavy enough to take some abuse.
We’ve decorated what used to be a fence
with old cans, my shoulder sporting a huge bruise.
I came here to learn what you can get away with;
how close to cradle the rifle, how much it bucks;
that the holes from a thirty-ought-six just fit
my small fingers; that there are consequences, luck,
and alternatives. You don’t have to sit and wait
for the explosion. Pull the trigger. The boom abates.

“Kill no Vermin as Fleas, lice ticks &c in the Sight of Others, if you See any filth or thick Spittle put your foot Dexterously upon it if it be upon the Cloths of your Companions, Put it off privately, and if it be upon your own Cloths return Thanks to him who puts it off.” G. Washington

There is a spider in the laundry, and another
in the bathroom. I try to not look in the basement.

I catch them with a paper and a cup, then outside
they go. Did you know there is a myth in which spiders

weave the threads that hang stars in the sky?, the sheer fabric
that is the transparent warp and weft of the heavens,

the tapestry of all Creation. Some believe they
labor forever, making the magic of our lives.

Some believe the existence of spiders undermines
belief in science, for only God could imagine

creatures as strange as spiders. so entirely unlike
us. This is why I want to save them, these mythical

makers of all things. He chuckled. I know, he says, that’s
why I like to kill them — to destroy the Universe.

“If You Cough, Sneeze, Sigh, or Yawn, do it not Loud but Privately; and Speak not in your Yawning, but put Your handkerchief or Hand before your face and turn aside.” G. Washington.

There was an owl. Well, an owl’s carcass.
He kept it in a coffee tin in the shed.
It was against the law, except it wasn’t,
because he wanted the bones. And no one
would ever find out. Unless you told them.
And you won’t tell them. Ever. Would you?
You can’t remember, but you can’t forget,
and what you do remember isn’t true.
There aren’t any bruises. There’s no blood.
No burning feathers, no stench, nothing.
No one cooked dinner, except you, of course,
and that was charcoal. Remember? Blame the pans.
Blame the electric stove. Blame the shotglass,
the sleeping pills, the things that go bump
in the night. Blame the wooden door that cracked
when it was hit. Blame the brick wall that didn’t.
No, no more drinks. No more pills. Not allowed.
Lay still. Don’t move. Move now. I never said
not to move. How could you say that? Put your hand
before your face and turn aside. You die when
I say you can. You forgot to say ‘may I.’
Stop screaming. You forgot to say please.

“Every Action done in Company, ought to be with Some Sign of Respect, to those that are Present.” G. Washington.

There was a great plaza, speckled with a small crowd. There was a long aisle, flanked by seated strangers. There was a man in a suit. There was a woman wearing white rags. Were there flowers? There must have been. There was a Bible, or two, or a church perhaps. There were witnesses, or there were none. There was a fist held high. There were fires, large and small. A candle. A crying out. There were promises made, promises made, promises made, and a heart as clear as a bell heard the hollow echo.

He wiped away tears.
This was just what he’d wished for.
She braced herself, stiff.

They’re training a new bus driver. He’s crisp
and eager. Sunrise looks like a sunset,
hot with color and storms we haven’t yet
spun out into. We look off toward the West
as if that’s what is ahead of us, but
really it’s behind us, as the whole globe
spins light and dark. We drag our days with us
into the night (mundane, muddled, maudlin).

That new girl mentioned my name; I wonder
if she likes me. My foot hurts; especially
when I move my toes. See? Ow! Don’t do that!Remember to do your chores and homework,
OK? Come on, honey, you can do it.
Damn it, I dropped the package of cookies.
New plan. I guess I’m having crumbs for lunch.Sorry, ma’am, I guess I’m not awake yet.

Vane and cup, the anemometer spins
in all directions, scooping hungry chunks
out of the air, then spiraling downward.
In this way, wind pierces both air and earth,
is made electric. Correction: is made
more intensely electric than it was.
Lightning is coming, the storm. By the time
the bus arrives at depot, I’m alone.

I step out, as did the others, into
the bright slanted morning light, slanted news,
the clouds spinning toward us, stories twisting
in the wind, omnipresent cameras
scooping up our every move, mics whisper
our names all the way to work, computers
distilling and distorting the same way
our memories do – fragment by fragment

assigned greater weight even as context
is broken into sand and washed away.